


You Gotta Come to Me With Your Arms Outstretched and on Your Knees

by Anonymous



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: (nothing graphic about the child abuse; just a couple mentions that it happened), Angst, Child Death, Hand Jobs, M/M, Murder, References to Past Child Abuse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He steels himself and he releases Murphy's chin and instead rests his hand on his brother's cheek and murmurs, "I can forgive you."<br/>"You're not God, Connor!" Murphy bites out.<br/>"I could be," Connor replies softly. "For you. I could be, if you needed me to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Gotta Come to Me With Your Arms Outstretched and on Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princekaiju](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princekaiju/gifts).



> For Laine, who wanted porn and sacrilege. Sorry it took me four thousand words of pain to get there.
> 
> Title jacked from the lyrics of "Holy Fool", because I am terrible at titling fic.

It seems a fairly straight-forward job, at first. Connor makes the plans and Murphy teases him for them and they both end up kneeling in their shitty motel room, praying over duffel bags full of guns and little plastic-silenced boxes of bullets because they don't like to load up their weapons until they're about to carry out a hit. It's not even a terribly complicated job - a child molester that had been caught shortly after they washed up on the shores of the States had gotten out on parole after only a few years. 

 

_(Connor had punched the wall as he read the paper and his rage had tasted like bile. There were some things he could abide - being friends with mafia men and drifting from place to place trying to make a living with his brother in tow may have dampened his morality slightly, but some things just made Connor sick, and the thought of grown men laying their hands on children was one of them. He threw the paper across the divide to Murphy's bed, and Murphy picked it up, his face taking on the same expression as Connor's as he scanned the page._

_"Where d'you think he is?" he asked finally._

_Connor shrugged. "Close to home. Don' think they'd let him out too far. He's only got parole, he's not a free man yet."_

_Murphy nodded. "We'll keep watch, then. Check the papers. See if the boys know anything."_

_Connor bowed his head a bit. Their contacts weren't the same, not since Rocco died - the rest of the regulars at the bar had either scattered or were too well-meaning to be in bed with any of Boston's crime rings. "We'll find him," he said eventually. "I've no doubt about that."_

_Murphy grinned at his brother, but it wasn't not a happy grin. It was twisted, with anger raging below the surface, and it didn't reach up to his eyes. "Aye. Nor me.")_

 

It had taken them weeks to track the man down, weeks of collecting papers from bins and whispering to hookers in dark alleys, exchanging slips of papers for stolen money and bashing in the door to the wrong address more than once. But this time, Connor is sure they have him. Murphy stakes the place out one night and comes home early that morning, dark circles lining triumphant eyes, and when Connor raises an eyebrow at him, he grins the same sick grin and says, "tonight."

So they do it that night. Murphy cleans guns and Connor prays, and then they switch, fingers sliding deftly over triggers and rosary beads in time with each other. For Connor, cleaning guns is a bit of a nervous habit; for Murphy, it's the worst kind of foreplay, the reassurance that when God reaches down and wraps His hand around Murphy's fingers and whispers, "pull", he will not disappoint.

They pull on turtlenecks and rosaries and coats and sunglasses, even though it must be at least eight at night, and stalk out of the motel room door, duffel bags in hand. It's not a long drive to the building, just a few miles, and it's not a long wait parked across the street until a shitty blue Honda with a dented bumper pulls up in front of the rundown house next door.

"Is that him?" Connor hisses, as if the man could hear them from outside the car.

Murphy leans across his brother's chest and peers out the window as the man gets out of his car and goes into the apartment. "Yeah. That's him."

They wait a few minutes, until the man has vanished into the leftmost door of the apartment complex, then cross themselves over their weapons, load their bullets, and slip out of the car. Connor pockets the keys and they run across the street, pulling masks over their heads. They frame the door and Connor looks across to his brother, eyes flashing. Murphy nods and holds up three fingers.

Then two.

Then one.

Murphy kicks the door open - he's sure he hears wood splinter somewhere but at this point, adrenaline pounding in his ears is the only thing he can be sure of. They burst into the building shouting, and the return shouts are accented by the sounds of noise suppressors delivering justice to the heart of someone who no longer abides by it.

They shoot probably more than is necessary, yes, but Connor and Murphy have always abided by the "make sure the fucker's dead" school of vigilante justice, as well as the "we were never properly trained so we might miss you a few times before we kill you" one. Bullets cut the air for a good ten seconds before Connor drops his guns and strides over to the man. He pulls his mask up and off of his head, crouches down and checks the man's pulse and feels the beats ebb away as the light in the man's eyes flickers out. Connor swallows hard, because he's more than willing to kill for the Lord but he doesn't necessarily want to see people being taken from under his hands, and almost misses the low cry behind him.

He whirls around to see Murphy on his knees, mask pushed up over his face, bent over something that looks like… Connor's blood runs cold and freezes his whole body and he scrambles over to Murphy's side. His brother is hunched over the body of a small girl, about nine or ten years old. She's shaking and twitching, blood oozing out from the bullet hole in her chest, but they both know that this is just the body's last reactions to shock. There's nothing left in there except a few seconds' time.

Murphy's leather-clad hands grip the girl's thin wrists, and he chokes out a sound that sounds like a sob bursting through gritted teeth and Connor's heart shatters a little.

"Murph…" he whispers, resting a hand on his brother's lower back.

"It was mine," Murphy murmurs back. "My bullet. Saw her out of… Out of the corner of my eye, saw her go down."

Connor's throat is tight. "You didn' mean to, Murph," he says softly.

"'Course I fuckin' didn't!" Murphy snaps. His grip on the girl's wrists tightened. "She didn' fuckin' do anything wrong! Was probably another one of the bastard's kidnaps–" His voice breaks off and his face twists into something ugly that Connor has never seen on his brother before. "He was probably fuckin' touching her, beating her… And I fuckin' killed her. I did…" He trails off again, eyes flickering back and forth between the girl's face and the bullet hole in her chest.

"Murph, you gotta let go of her, you'll leave evidence," Connor says gently. He reaches over and pries Murphy's hands from the girl's wrists and crosses her arms over her chest, then digs in his pocket for pennies. He holds two out to Murphy and asks, "do you wanna do it?"

"'m not really in a position t' be granting grace right now, am I?" Murphy says humorlessly. 

Connor shrugs. "Pull yourself together, then, and do the bastard we came for." He shoves the pennies into Murphy's hand and turns back to the girl. She looks so peaceful, pale skin growing paler by the second under the slow drain of blood. No light lies behind her eyelids anymore, Connor is sure of that. She doesn't look like she was in pain, and he counts his small blessings as he places slivers of copper over her eyes and recites the prayer he hears being muttered across the room.

When Connor says "et Spiritus Sancti," he says it for Murphy too.

When he turns back, Murphy is standing stock still over the body of the man. His eyes are dark and his face is tight, but he doesn't shy away when Connor comes up to him, wraps an arm around him, presses his face into the dark ink of the Blessed Mother.

"You didn't mean to," Connor says again.

"I know I didn'," Murphy whispers back. "Doesn' mean that I didn't do it."

Connor stays silent, because Murphy is right. They don't say another word to each other as they pick up their guns, slip out of the house, and crawl back into their motel room.

Connor falls asleep fast enough, but Murphy lies on his back for hours, staring at the ceiling, clutching the beads of his rosary so tight that he could pray off the indents in his hand.

~

_(The morning after the hit, they'd gone to a quiet Catholic church thirty miles from the motel room they'd abandoned, and spent a good twenty minutes in silent prayer. Connor sat in a confessional booth and admitted to his usual sins - drinking too much, smoking too much, being a general arse, and the occasional stealing food and money. He never confessed to killing people. He never considered it a sin._

_He was sentenced to 10 Hail Marys for theft and a wry smile for being an arse and sent on his way. Connor left the confessional booth feeling lighter on his feet and went to sit back down beside Murphy. "Your turn."_

_Murphy shook his head, still bowed in prayer._

_"C'mon, Murph, who knows the next time we'll be in a church? You gotta go do it now," Connor pressed._

_"'m not fuckin' going to confession today," Murphy growled. "Now let me fuckin' finish."_

_Connor opened his mouth, then closed it again and sat back in the pew. He listened to Murphy's quietly mumbled prayers and he could tell that very few of them were for Murphy himself._

_When Murphy slept, it was short and fitful. Connor had woken up the first night to a low whine and Murphy twisted up in his sheets. He sat in bed and watched his brother for a while as Murphy's fists clenched and unclenched on the comforter. Murphy was talking in his sleep, which wasn't unusual, but it was too fast and quiet for Connor to understand. He was about to go wake Murphy up when he heard Murphy mutter, "et Spiritus Sancti" and sit bolt upright in bed, panting furiously with wide, panicked eyes. Connor was on his brother's bed in a flash, grounding what parts of Murphy's body he could reach, pushing sweat-drenched hair from his forehead until Murphy stopped shaking and struggling and instead slumped forward, pressing his face into his brother's chest._

_"It was her," he whispered. "Dreamed about her. About killin' her again…"_

_Connor nodded and wrapped one arm around Murphy's back. "I know, Murph."_

_"Can't close my eyes withou' seein' her," Murphy continued. "Every time. Barely fuckin' slept the last two days."_

_"I know." Connor buried his face in Murphy's hair. "But y'didn't mean to, Murph. You really didn't. I know you're a good man, an' so does God."_

_Murphy laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Reckon He's havin' some doubts."_

_That was the first night, and the easiest.)_

 

They lie low for a while after that. They've picked up enough money from mob underbosses and drug dealers that they can make cheap motels home for a couple of nights before fleeing to some other part of the outskirts of Boston. That, and a pack of smokes each, keeps them going for a while.

Murphy doesn't sleep much anymore.

He drifts through their day-to-day life, sneaking out to the store to grab food and beer and smokes, paying for it when he can, but their funds are dwindling fast, and they have to take what they need more often than not. He does what Connor tells him to with uncharacteristic obedience, and it throws Connor so badly that one time he almost punches Murphy in the stomach because he's expecting a fight instead of resigned compliance. His hand stops just short and Murphy doesn't even shrug away, just stares back at Connor with an expectant look of, "go on. I know you want to."

Connor punches the wall instead, after he's sent Murphy out for cigarettes and a paper. It doesn't help.

Murphy's nightmares get worse and worse, and one night Connor wakes up to him vomiting in the motel room's bathroom. He lies in bed and winces at the retching, but he doesn't get up, because he truly does not know what to say. 

 

For a while, Murphy is quiet and resigned; then he gets angry.

It takes a couple of weeks, but eventually he gets sick of compliance and whatever brotherly petulance he kept bottled up inside morphs into something ugly and angry and it takes over his whole being. Murphy and Connor get into fights over the smallest things (who smoked the last cigarette, whose turn it is to take the motel payment to the front office, whose jeans are whose), and their bodies begin to bear the badges of Murphy's anger. Connor is hesitant to fight back at first, but he can't keep Murphy from provoking him forever, and when he fights back he does it just as hard as ever. 

It's only afterwards, when he sees bruises on Murphy's stark, all-too-visible ribs, that he feels guilty.

Connor can't tell if it's because Murphy's not eating, or because he's not sleeping, or because he simply rages through all his energy, but his brother is tired and angry all the time, and only getting more so. Every few days, Connor suggests he goes to confession, or at least goes to church, but often receives a fist to the face for his concerns. 

Connor starts looking for hits again. They've taken too many weeks off in a row, for Murphy's sake, but it's not helping Murphy anymore, and they're down to their last few hundred dollars, so they need to kill someone evil and rich to keep going on. Murphy doesn't help look, just sits at the motel's table or on his bed and stares at the ceiling and scrapes his nails over his tattoo.

 _Aequitas_ , struck through with red, more often than not.

Connor finds a section of the Russian mafia that's going to be meeting in a hotel across town. He figures that they'll have money there, or at least rings and other valuables he can pawn and feed them for another few days until they can find something better.

He doesn't tell Murphy, not until they day of. 

On that morning, he rouses Murphy from his post-nightmare half-doze with a heavy duffel bag thrown on his chest. Murphy jerks awake and struggles a bit before he realizes what exactly woke him up. "The fuck'd you do that for?"

"We've got a job today," Connor replies shortly. 

"Like fuck we do! Since fuckin' when?" Murphy demands, pushing the bag to the side and standing up.

"Since the Russian mafia's got boys meeting today," Connor snaps. "And we're gonna go meet them."

Murphy glares. "The fuck we are."

Connor grits his teeth and tries to reach for Murphy's arm. Murphy smacks it away and lunges for him, and they struggle for a moment until Connor gets a grip on Murphy's hair and pulls backwards. "Fucking listen. We have a fuckin' job to do, and you know who gave it to us, so I suggest you get yourself the fuck together and get ready."

Murphy's eyes burn black as Connor pushes him away, but he does what he's told.

They clean guns in silence, pray over the tools of their trade in silence, sit back to back instead of side to side and it's just like they used to do except violently different. God doesn't drive them today; that privilege is reserved for desperation (on Connor's part) and fury (on Murphy's), and possibly the sense of obligation. They know what they are doing is correct, know it like they know each other.

But no one feels it today.

Connor can't help but think back to their very first hit, the one against Petrova right after they'd left the police station, when they'd crashed through the ceiling and still managed to kill everyone. He smiles at the thought, but it flickers and fades almost immediately. There won't be any air vents to crawl through this time - just straight in, break through the door, and start shooting. 

Rage or not, Murphy falls into step behind Connor, staring down at the sidewalk through his sunglasses. He nearly walks past the building and hisses as Connor grabs his arm to lead him through an alley to the back entrance. They load their weapons in the basement and stash their duffel bags in a supply closet, then start climbing the stairs to the fourth floor. Connor moves stiffly, careful not to knock too much against the guns strapped to his chest, and he hears the squeak of leather as Murphy's hands clench into fists.

They take their places at the door to the suite - of course it's a suite, anything less wouldn't be good enough for even a chapter of the Boston chapter of the Russian Mafia - and Connor pulls his mask on before turning to look at Murphy. "You ready?"

Murphy just stares back silently, then puts his own mask on.

Connor nearly growls in frustration and grabs Murphy's shoulder. Murphy instinctively tries to twist away but Connor holds him still. "Are you ready, Murphy?"

Murphy snarls and jerks out of Connor's grip, but nods once. He draws his guns and clicks the safeties off, and Connor mirrors him. "Alright, let's go."

He kicks through the door and they're shooting before it's open all the way. Or Connor is, at least. He recognizes the few seconds between when his shots start and when Murphy's join in, but Connor can't spare the time to look behind him and see. He recognizes that they all fall (there are twelve of them, all eliminated with shots to the heart or the head or some other area with vital arteries that see them bleeding out fast.) Connor breathes hard, half-grinning, and turns around to see Murphy dropping to his knees, hyperventilating, mask in hand and guns tossed to the floor. He kneels in front of his brother and Murphy clings to him, shaking hard.

"Murph, what happened?" Connor pushes. "Did they get you?" He hadn't seen any of the Russians pull a gun, but he guesses that it's entirely possible. 

Murphy shakes his head wildly and his eyes are closed tightly, and he can't hold still long enough for Connor to calm him.

"Murph. Murphy." The sound doesn't appear to break through, and Connor tries shaking Murphy, gripping his face, trying to talk to him, but nothing works. Finally, releases his brother and stands up, grabs one of the discarded guns, unscrews the silencer, and strikes Murphy across the face with it.

Murphy's breath catches and dies away, and his eyes snap open. He lets out a little surprised sound - not a pained howl or an angered shout, just the faint noise of surprise. He stares up at Connor and reaches up to feel for blood on his head, but Connor shoves his hand away and holds his wrist tight. Murphy inhales deeply, letting his eyes half close for a fraction of a second before they snap open again.

"Murph."

"Connor." Murphy's voice is thick, his eyes glassy, and he breathes out his brother's name like a prayer.

"What happened?" Connor asks. Murphy's eyes dart around the room, between bodies, until Connor squeezes his wrist and his attention snaps back to his brother.

"I don't… I don't know," Murphy mumbles. He tries to break eye contact, but Connor grabs him by the chin and forces him to look up. This morning, that would have sent Murphy into a rage, but now it seems to calm him, even soothe him a bit. "Y'just opened the door and… I panicked."

Connor tilts his head to the side a bit. "We've done this before, Murph. These same fuckers too, we killed 'em all and it was fine."

"I don't know," Murphy repeats, his voice breaking. "Just thought… Maybe I wasn't meant to do it, maybe I was doin' wrong here, Connor!"

"You know we're not doin' wrong," Connor says fiercely. "You know who told us to do it."

"'Course I fuckin' know!" Murphy says. "And I know what He told us to do. 'Kill that which is evil so that which is good may flourish', and I didn't fuckin' do that! I fuckin' killed that which was good! How can He forgive something like that?"

Connor swallows hard and his rosary sits heavy on his chest, because he knows that Murphy thinks that it's true. He knows that Murphy thinks that he'll never be forgiven, that he's _tainted_ now, that he's _broken_. Connor knows that Murphy didn't meant to kill the girl, knows that he's still clean and pure in the eyes of God, because there is no possible God that would condemn Murphy for trying to follow His word, even if he slipped up in the process. And he knows that he has to convince Murphy of that, before his brother destroys himself entirely.

So he steels himself and he releases Murphy's chin and instead rests his hand on his brother's cheek and murmurs, "I can forgive you."

"You're not _God_ , Connor!" Murphy bites out.

"I could be," Connor replies softly. "For you. I could be, if you needed me to."

Murphy stares up at him, eyes wide, and Connor can see the pure desperation at war with his religious upbringing, and they both know that no man is equal to God, but Connor is not just any man. 

"I…" His voice falters, then dies away as his brother's fingers caress his cheek. It feels like home in Ireland when he took communion and the priest touched his face and told him that he was drinking the blood of God. It feels like late nights and nightmares and his Ma comforting him at two in the morning as he shook in her lap. It feels like the boat to the States when he sat at the edge of the deck and watched the ocean swallow up his home and Connor came up behind him, pressing against his back and they watched the water steal the last dregs of familiarity together, right before their eyes.

It feels right.

Murphy closes his eyes and leans into the touch and just barely nods. "Okay."

Connor feels relieved and regretful all at once. "Okay. Right." He strokes along Murphy's stubble, down to the edge of his jaw and back up, and Murphy shudders at the touch. Connor grinds his teeth a bit, then swallows again and says, "how long has it been since your last confession?"

Murphy tenses under him, but after a second, he whispers, "a month and a half."

 _Forty-three days_ , Connor thinks to himself, but outwardly he just nods. "And why have you waited so long?"

His brother starts shaking again, but he still manages to answer, "I was scared."

"Scared of God?" Connor asks.

"Scared of not being forgiven," Murphy whispers. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Connor's hip. Connor cards his fingers through Murphy's hair, the other hand still holding Murphy's wrist tightly. "Scared that He wouldn't take me back."

"God will always take you back," Connor mutters. He rubs small circles on Murphy's wrist with his thumb, scratches gently at the back of Murphy's skull through his hair. "You're doin' His work, you're made in His image. He loves you, Murph. _I_ love you."

Murphy shudders again and presses his face tighter against Connor. "I know, I know, I know he does, I jus'…" 

Connor nods, more to himself than to his brother. "I know, Murph."

"You don't!" Murphy tries to pound a fist against Connor, but Connor holds him tighter and Murphy sags against him again. "I jus' want my penance," he whispers, almost too quiet for Connor to hear. "Jus' want to make up for it, but I can't do it in a church, it won' be enough. Can't just say a couple of Holy Marys and make up for this."

"What do you think will be enough?" Connor asks. He hopes he keeps the fear out of his voice.

Murphy shivers a little. "I need to hurt for it."

Connor's blood runs cold.

"Like she did?"

Murphy shakes his head. "Can't suffer like she did, Conn. Can't kill m'self to make up for killin' someone else. You know that."

"Then how?" Connor asks shakily.

"Need God to forgive me, t'punish me," Murphy says. "Need… Need you."

"I don't want to hurt you, Murph," Connor says softly. 

Murphy looks up for the first time in a while, locks eyes with his makeshift deity, and he feels like he's staring into the sun. "I need you to."

Connor wonders if this is how God feels sometimes, giving punishments He knows are not warranted. But Connor's God is a just God, and Connor feels anything but just right now.

And he looks back, into dark desperation and he knows that there is nothing on God's earth that he would not give his brother if he asked. 

"Will you hurt me, Connor?" Murphy asks. "Will you do tha' for me?" He's clinging to Connor at this point, and Connor knows that Murphy's not in his right mind right now, is too driven by desperation and something else glinting in those darkened eyes, and he can't hurt Murphy, he can't, he _can't_ …

"Yes," he whispers. "I will, Murph. I'll forgive you and I'll–" he flinches at his own words. "I'll hurt you."

Murphy mumbles out a 'thank you' and hides his face in Connor's hip again. Connor runs his hand through Murphy's hair a few times, then reaches down to catch the rosary beads. He runs his fingers over the beads one at a time, thinks about the prayers that go with them, then grabs a handful and yanks backwards. Murphy chokes a little bit and falls back, struggling to catch his balance, but Connor just keeps pulling until Murphy is on the ground, on his back, letting out quiet little gasps as the beads bob against his throat. Connor twists the string of beads, keeping the tension, and lets the cross fall over Muprhy's throat. He strokes Murphy's face with one hand, tightens the beads with another until Murphy's back arches a little and his hands scrabble to get some purchase on Connor's jacket. Connor releases the string and grabs Murphy's wrists, pinning them to either side of him. Murphy's breath hitches and he arches up a little bit. Connor pins him harder, sitting on Murphy's hips to hold him still, spreading his arms like a crucifix and digging fingertips into his palms. Murphy gasps and struggles harder - Connor almost laughs, because Murphy can never do _anything_ easy, even save himself - but he leans in and whispers, harsh in his brother's ear, "stay _still_ for me."

Murphy freezes immediately, mouth open slightly, and he allows Connor to hold him down. Connor squeezes Murphy's wrists for a moment, then releases him and sits back on his heels. He shifts one had to Murphy's neck, squeezing along the line of indents where the rosary beads were. Murphy gasps again, as much as he can, but his hands stay in place. Instead, he just rolls his hips up in form of a struggle, and Connor feels something hard pressing against his leg. He glances down, eyes widening slightly, and Murphy looks stricken, but Connor just raises his hand back to Murphy's face, gently against his forehead, and asks, "is that what you need? D'you need me to release you?" Murphy looks away, shame blazing across his face, but Connor twists his face back to meet his gaze. "Answer me, Murph. Do you need me to release you?"

Murphy bites down on his lip, tries to look anywhere but Connor, but Connor is taking up his whole frame of vision. He can see nothing but his brother looming over him, one hand on his face and the other on his throat, and he can't lie to something like that, so he just nods.

Connor's expression softens a bit, and he says, "if that's what you need, Murph, you've only got t'ask for it." Murphy tries to look away, and Connor decides that the time for gentleness as now passed. He slaps Murphy hard across the face, then holds him steady again. "You will keep looking at me." It's not a question, and it's not a request. Murphy nods again anyway.

Connor shifts back a bit and lets one gloved hand trail down to Murphy's hips, gently circling over the bulge in his brother's jeans. His other hand tightens over Murphy's throat, and Murphy feels like he's being stretched in every direction, top to bottom by his brother and side to side by his promises.

Connor leans in close. "Give me ten Hail Marys," he murmurs, because that was his penance, the day after Murphy killed that girl, and he thinks those prayers should be enough for Murphy as well.

He's surprised that Murphy doesn't fight at all, just looks to the ceiling and starts mumbling, "Hail Mary, full of grace, our Lord is with thee." Connor starts undoing Murphy's belt, then slips his hand under the waistband of Murphy's jeans until he finds solid flesh. Murphy pauses and groans quietly, then picks up again.

When he finishes the prayer, Connor slaps him harder, and says, "again."

"Fuck… Hail Mary, full of grace…"

Connor starts stroking him slowly, admiring the way Murphy's breath hitches around praying for sinners, the way a quiet moan breaks the word "amen".

One hard punch to the stomach, and Murphy almost curls in on himself, gasping for air, but Connor pins him down by the throat and doesn't remove his hand this time.

"Again."

"Hail… Hail Mary, full of grace…"

Murphy's words rise and fall with the speed of Connor's strokes, his voice breaking around Jesus and God and sinners and death and on every "amen" Connor delivers another blow of penance, across his face or his neck or his ribs. Murphy will be bruised in the morning, Connor's sure.

But he'll also be free.

Murphy breathes out the last Hail Mary and lets his head fall back against the floor. His eyes are hazy when they meet Connor's, but he's smiling faintly and Connor has to work so hard to keep from smiling back.

"One our Father," he growls, and Murphy immediately takes up on the prayer.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"

Connor starts stroking Murphy off faster and faster, and Murphy writhes as the pleasure builds because he knows he's close, he's _so close_ to being free of the demons that have plagued him for the last month, and he's so desperate to be accepted again and he's _so close to coming he can taste it_ …

He finishes the prayer just before orgasm hits, even with trying to drag it out, and he groans loudly in frustration. Connor looks him up and down, once. "You close?"

Murphy nods, panting shallowly. "Was almost there."

Connor thinks for a second. "One from our father."

"I just did–" Murphy starts.

"Not our Father," Connor interrupts. " _Our_ father."

Murphy's eyes go wide for a second as understanding washes over him, then he closes his eyes and starts speaking.

"And shepherds we shall be for Thee, my Lord, for Thee..."

Connor pushes him hard, allowing just enough air for Murphy to keep speaking, stroking him frantically. "C'mon, Murph", he murmurs to himself, and he doubt Murphy hears him.

"En nomine Patris et Filii…" Murphy opens his eyes and looks up, pleading. "Connor, _please_."

Connor nods and whispers, " _yes_."

"Et Spiritus Sancti." All at once Murphy throws his head back, his hips bucking in Connor's hand, and release comes with freedom and a long, low moan and stuttered curses and such an utter feeling of weightlessness that Murphy swears he's been picked up by the hands of God himself and placed back on his feet with the rest of the world.

Connor massages Murphy's throat gently as he comes down, strokes over his brother's chest where he knows the bruises will be the worst. He carefully pulls his hand out of Murphy's jeans and wipes his glove on his own shirt. No need for there to be any stupid DNA evidence on the scene, and he'll make Murphy do the washing.

"Murph? Y'alright?"

Murphy's gaze flickers around the room for a moment until it finally lands on Connor. "Conn…"

"Yeah, Murphy, 'm here." Connor pushes up to Murphy's shoulders and pulls his brother's head into his lap. "S'alright, 'm here." 

Murphy closes his eyes and reaches up over his head to hold onto Connor's jacket. They stay that way for a while until Connor's uneasiness about remaining at the scene overtakes his protectiveness. "Murph?"

"Hmm?"

"We gotta go, I don't know when anyone's gonna come find this shit, but we don't wanna be here when they do."

Murphy blinks owlishly a couple times, like he'd just remembered that there were a dozen bodies around them, but then he nods. "Aye, right, sorry. Jus'… Jus' forgot for a second."

Connor carefully gets to his feet, then hauls Murphy upright as well. They hastily place pennies over the eyes of their dead - they don't have time for a prayer for each of them, so they stand in the center of the room, arms outstretched, and call each of the souls forth to God.

Then they strap their guns back onto their chests and leave the room locked and run down the stairs to pick up their duffel bags and then emerge into the Boston night air.

Murphy feels like he's floating.

He feels like he's free.


End file.
